Blogger, realist, clarifier, if there is such a term. Truth teller, who's not afraid to admit I'm wrong. Hellacious, renegade violist and "computer whisperer"; was once accused of practicing the Dark Arts with systems.
I'm tougher than most and survived things that would have killed most women. I still love life. I was homeless, now I'm not. Still in the 'hood, though. Nebraska Avenue, 33605. The stories are priceless and endless.

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Sunday, December 16, 2012

ROW 80 POST 42 – THE RISING OF A DARK NIGHT, PART 2

I didn’t realize that when
I wrote this piece that there would be a part 2. Aaron responded to my 1st
post and that spurred further thought. So here we are; I want to quote him:

“I hope this will get people to become more proactive and
realize that so much was lost yesterday in innocence. The young man that did
the senseless tragedy is responsible. All of the events make me question a
world gone mad. A world where we teach our young boys not to cry or feel
emotion. We show them examples through the media of other men that are bumbling
idiots or uncaring fathers. Young men are unprepared for the perils of the
world and they don't know how to get help when they need it because we are
teaching them to "be a man." In my opinion, a man is a person that is
not afraid to ask for help or too prideful. I will continue to blog and
hopefully show the world that boys and men need positive role models and maybe
I can make a difference.” -- Aaron Brinker, dadblunders

That is the heart of the
matter right there, I believe. Boys are taught to be “men” and not show their
feelings. They bottle up their emotions. I recognize this, because I was raised
this way, by my mother, not my father, perverse as that sounds. My mother
accused my father of being “weak,” when he shed tears, yet she was the one with
the psychosis, as am I. To my detriment, I do not cry easily.

In general, when tragedy
strikes or we deal with injustices, we turn to humor to use as a bulwark
against the pain. In the case of the killings of Americans in Libya and the
subsequent furor over the extremely provocative “Muslim Rage” cover in
Newsweek, which was completely tasteless, Muslims and non-Muslims, like me,
hung out at #muslimrage to make fun on Twitter. “#muslimrage “I hate when the hummis
goes off.” It became ecumenical: #catholicrage “when the priest drinks all the
sacramental wine.”

Humor is wonderful as a
balm and to diffuse even the biggest blowhards, but it can’t bring back the
dead, nor heal the broken-hearted. What we are left with is often a sense of
bewilderment and helplessness. For someone like me, I understand all too well,
how the heart of darkness can intrude.

I have written before of
my mother’s mental illness. She was raised by people who were incapable of
raising healthy children and should never had had any. The fact that the
youngest son of 3 is relatively healthy, but clueless is more a testament to my
mother’s care and protection of him as a child, than any actual raising done by
his parents, my maternal grandparents.

My mother suffered as a
child; much of it, she wouldn’t speak of. Suffice it to say that my childhood was
pretty awful, and though when she died our relastionship was mended and I loved her dearly, it has taken me 57 years
to gain the insight I’ve garnered. This is no one’s fault. Insight and growing is arduous
and change really, never stops.

Anyway, I was a lousy
girl-child. More a boy-child in thought and temperament. I was taught to fight
back and make bullies pay and pay hard, although my mother bullied me
ferociously into adulthood. My father, being the mellow soul, watched over me
to make sure I came to no real physical harm. He too, was a victim of emotional bullying from her, but was staying in the marriage I believe, until I was
grown.

She left him when I took
off for music school. To say that I have Asperger syndrome (note: at the time this was written, ABC News has helpfully highlighted the fact that there is NO link between violence and Asperger. I thought I was just socially inept all these years...) and do not relate well with people is
to put it mildly. After a series of disastrous relationships, broken marriages,
drug and alcohol problems, homelessness and ill health, Parkinson’s Disease, or
non-Parkinson’s-Disease-that-is-the-question, bipolar, mental illness,
psychosis, but perversely, great careers, I’ve finally figured out that I’m not
the person my mother wanted me to be.

Gee, what a shock. So, I
hate when I start on one topic and it ends up here. But, in explaining all of
this, I’m also telling you, that there is something in me, that lurks. That is
very dark, indeed. I try to keep it tamped down. It is “impulse.” It roars up,
like a lava flow. It tends to come out at the oddest moments. It engulfs like a
hot wave and it does, indeed fill my limbs with heat and light. I feel it when
something good is about to happen and when I witness the bad. It is something atavistic and it scared me, at first.

It feels about like this looks. For real.

"Angel" is about a vampire who was given a soul and spends his time trying to find redemption and forgiveness for all the wrong he has done over centuries. I can relate, and identify somewhat with both sides of his character, and also how quickly he shifts from the light to the dark. Maybe we all walk that tightrope carefully. JC always says to me when I leave, "Be nice," and in the main, I am. I know I carry something that can easily be used as a weapon. I'm aware that I have to play chess mentally and try to be adept in situations that may need defusing. Not my greatest forté; diplomacy. I've been better lately, with JC's help.

The man got on the bus
shortly after I did; I was riding to my local grocery store. The man was short 11 cents. He
fussed around for a minute, searching his pockets. We waited a good while. The
bus driver was not moving until the young man coughed up the 11 cents. I’m in
patient, but not-THAT-patient mode. I sigh. My PD tremors were not noticeably
bad. We were still waiting.

This young woman comes
tearing up the aisle and puts 11 cents in the change hopper. The two of them go
running to the back of the bus. The bus lurches off. The couple come tearing up
and plop down in the only seat; the one in front of me and they have a baby.
They’re both frantically fussing over their baby. They’re both neat and clean.
The baby is clean and bundled up. This family is homeless and they’re on their
way to a feed.

They’re probably new in town. This is my home bus route.
Everyone knows me on this route. There are several feeds and services for the homeless along Nebraska. I had an extra 5 bucks, so I handed it to the woman, as I got off the bus, saying to her, “It gets better, honey.”
The man started to cry. My limbs were on fire. I hop off the bus and hear “Ha ha,
Viola, you a crazy bitch!” My usual fan club.

I think this dark and light is in all of us. I see reports about these young men. They’re described as “geeks,
loners, bright.” They may be “geniuses.” I’m no “genius” but, what is that,
anyway? Everyone is peculiar. We could so easily be that way, or could we? I cannot for one minute imagine harming another person, especially, a smaller, weaker one.

My psychotic moments are rare and I am not a harm
to others when they occur. I get confused, which is funny, because I am
confused most of the time anyway. I call it my confuse-a-what. I remember them now; I didn't when it first happened. This is all beside the point. My fears, or psychoses have to do with my overarching fears of not having any security, so if everything isn't so, I freak out. Well, it's really funny if you think of it like that, because when is anything every like it should be, we're talking about PEOPLE for goodness sake! Nothing is ever where it should be! But, moving on, this isn't about me. I'm really harmless, unless I decide not to be and I'm iron-clad on being harmless, unless someone gives me a damned good reason not to be. See?

But there’s no balm, no
easing for wanton destruction of innocent life; here’s where I can’t stop the
confuse-a-what. Other than trying to help pass stricter gun-control laws. Other
than talking about this now and speaking out against the NRA and starting one
of my endless and famous SignON.Org petitions which delights Rick Scott,
Governor of Florida and his Minions. Other than that, I got nuthin’ as the song
goes. Except an empty heart over this. This tears me up. Both JC and I are
stricken. Everyone is devastated and when people are so universally affected by
a tragedy of this magnitude, something is deeply, desperately wrong. We have
ignored so many signs and warnings. We may not get another.

Itinerant violist and computer trouble-shooter for more years than I care to admit. While no longer homeless, still crazy, but with Labels *sigh* a bus-riding Asperger, bipolar-ridden, PD or non-PD, carbon life-form, providing fodder for Medical community. Not even kidding. Still ridiculous.

Acquiring a much richer and fuller experience and finding deeper meaning in day to day life, than I ever learned in a classroom, concert hall, or computer center. I will never believe that things just occur randomly, just monumentally disordered.

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Eventually everything happens on Nebraska Avenue. The pimps have been here, both the real and the political. The athletes and the artists. It's a life, a state of mind and it's home, Nebraska Avenue, 33605, 33602 and 33604.

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